Ghost of the Past
by SatiricalPhilosophy
Summary: He saw her die, was there when it happened. Years later, however, he sees her again. He's determined to find out if it is really her, and exactly what happened that fateful day. Full Summary inside. RR.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer- Harry Potter belongs to J.K.R. I only own the story and all original characters presented throughout the duration of this fic. _

_Summary- He had been there when it had happened. He saw her die, and could do nothing… except bury her afterwards. Now, years later he sees the very girl he saw die walking past a corner pub. Is it really her? If so, how did she escape her death and not come find him? Or is it just his lonely, hardened mind creating yet another mirage of his greatest desire? He's determined to get to the bottom of it all, and find out just what exactly happened that fateful day in Antarctica. _

_A/N—Probably has been done before, but hey… every story is a little bit different. _

Ghost of the Past

Chapter One

He stared at the ceiling, half-lidded eyes glazed with anguish. The sickness and headache associated with alcohol washed through him. He stared without seeing, felt without feeling.

And he didn't care.

He hadn't for a long time.

He sighed, rolled over. Sitting up on the messy bed, he swung her legs over the side, sat there with his head hanging down. The crumpled sheets felt sticky against his bare legs, only increasing his feeling of uncleanness, having omitted to forgo showering the previous night. He let a weary sigh escape past his lips, rubbed the back of his neck with his large, calloused hand; it was rough even to himself. He forced himself up; almost winced at the pain from the deep scratch along his bare chest he had partially reopened last night, but hadn't bothered cleaning up. If he got an infection and died, then at least he might be fortunate enough to be with her—

He forced himself to stop thinking along that line of thought, focused solely on the pain from the wound on his upper chest, sore muscles, and pounding head. He wouldn't do or apply anything that would decrease the pain, lessen it. He welcomed the physical pain, could identify with it. He didn't mind it. It kept him from thinking on matters he wished to forget… yet he didn't want to forget. It was a contradiction he fought and wrestled with many a time, never getting anywhere. He popped his neck, rolled his shoulders. He needed a shower; a hot one or a cold one, it was still undecided.

He could see the dim light from the early morning around the edges of the dark, heavy curtains over the French windows in his messy and disorderly room. Walking across the room to the dark wooden door to his bathroom he stepped on something—he wasn't sure what—and once again ignored the discomfort and twinge it brought. He opened the bathroom door, stepped in. It was big, tiled like a back and white checkerboard. A large bath, black with small white veins, which could easily fit four people or more, dominated one corner, with a separate shower, just a little smaller than the bath, taking up one wall. Male toiletries (razor, shaving cream, cologne, etc…) littered the white and black marble sink. Despite the chaotic condition his room was in, his bathroom was, oddly enough, in a fairly organized state.

For a minute, he grappled for the light switch, finding it and flipping it on. Immediately, he shielded his eyes from the bright, glaring radiance. Several seconds went by. He blinked, adjusted to the light, and started walking to his shower where he slid the glass doors opened, turned the knobs; hot water gushed out of the faucet. He slipped out of his boxer shorts, stepped into the shower, hissed when the water hit his healing cut, but quickly went about washing his body and shampooing his dark hair. All the while, the water did nothing to warm his cold body. He didn't feeling the almost scolding touch of it against his nicely tanned skin, or take notice to the red blotches starting to appear.

He was always cold.

He hated it.

In record time he was finished. After drying off, he wrapped the towel around his trim waist. Entered his bedroom again. If he wished to be at work on time, he had to hurry. Throwing on a pair of black trousers with a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he tossed on a black robe. His look was completed. He hadn't bothered to run a comb through his hair; even when he combed his unruly black locks, they looked as if they had never seen a comb. A run through with his fingers was enough. He hadn't bothered to shave the light stubble he wore either. Anyone who had a problem with it… He often exercised his two favorite words: 'Fuck' and 'You'.

He cursed… He was late. He found if he concentrated hard enough, though, he just didn't care. Not now.

Besides, he was the most elite Auror the British Ministry of Magic had in commission; they wouldn't sack him. In a time of war, they needed him too much to care about his being a few minutes late. He knew it. They knew it.

He apparated.

888

Death Eater reports. Paper work. Death Eater reports. Paperwork.

Death Eater attacks. More Voldemort supporters. Increasing numbers of muggle massacres.

He rubbed his face with his hands, the stubble on his chin and cheeks scratchy against his palm. Reclining back in his chair and letting his arms drop to the armrest, he stared dispassionately at the reports on his cluttered desk. Death Eaters had been attacking more often. Their raids increasing tenfold in the last two months, the number of captured Death Eaters never rising and never lowering. It was frustrating, but kept the Aurors unbelievably busy, many not even seeing home days at a time, taking quick naps at the Ministry incase another alarm arose.

Personally, he couldn't care less if he was always working or on a mission. Preferred to be working and hunting Death Eaters to being at home. Home held nothing for him. Nothing except mocking memories of what was and what could have been. Haunting remembrance of a past he cared a great deal to escape and forget, but wouldn't let go. Home was cold and desolate. Empty and barren. A place where he would always fall back into his anguished thoughts, memories. A place where… that he hated. A place that reminded him of _her_. At work he focused on nothing but the task at hand. If he didn't, any preoccupied thoughts could very well lead to his death. A cynical twist of his lips was his only expression.

_Would death really be all that horrible? _

All expression wiped from his face, his head whipped around when the door to his office was suddenly thrown open, barely missing slamming against the wall. He looked at the man in his late thirties, an Auror. The man wore an expression of determination, concern, and slight fear behind masked eyes. No words needed to be exchanged. He stood up and quickly threw on his robe, grabbed his wand. The alarm had been made. He had a mission.

888

He walked into his room, made work at unbuttoning his shirt after shrugging off his black robe with one hand. The other held a bottle of firewhiskey. The mission had been a success. They had captured almost all of the Death Eaters, only two escaped. One by death (by his own hand), and one by apparating. He considered the one escaping to be a failure. It was only a success if all the Death Eaters were dealt justice, either by imprisonment, death, or the kiss. He had no quarrels about any of three. The only matter that bothered him about the whole affair was that he _didn't give a damn_ about murdering the sons of bitches, taking another human life, or even supporting taking the very thing that made them human—their souls. He would have, years past. Not now, however. Not anymore.

He remembered when he had such grand beliefs of right and wrong, had such values. Now, however, it was blurred. Blurred by hate, and vengeance. He could kill, and he could torture, and he could stand by and watched as a screaming Death Eater or follower of Voldemort had their soul sucked out. He often wondered what separated himself from Voldemort now. He was doing the same thing he was, wasn't he? He just played for a different team. Had different logic and reasoning behind his actions. His was personal. A personal loathing. His own personal vendetta. His own little war. At the beginning, it had been about doing what was right, and helping those in need. To stop the bad guys at his own expense, selfless devotion to helping mankind. Not any more, though. His quest for Voldemort's demise was driven by the insane need of revenge. It had been since he had lost the most important thing to him… the most important person to him… _her_.

He just didn't give a _fuck_ about being selfless, or about what was right and wrong. He wanted them to suffer. Suffer like he was suffering. Like _she _had suffered. He wanted them to feel what he was feeling. The absolute feeling of helplessness. The torrents of pain he could never seem to escape. The drowning loneliness and despair. The bitterness of life. He wanted them to feel the loss of the most important thing they held dear. Saving mankind… A cynical smile crossed his features. He didn't care about mankind anymore. Had given up and turned his back on it a long time ago.

'_Mankind is screwed anyways…'_

He took a large swing from the bottle. The burning sensation as the strong liquid slid down his throat more than welcomed. It was a routine of his: get up in the morning with a pounding headache, do all the usual morning activities, spend hours on end buried in his work, go home, drink himself into a fine stupor, and then wake up in the morning and do it all again. Occasionally, he would venture out of his routine and spend time with his friends or in some pub. Rarely, though—always too busy with work and trying to drown his sorrow. His routine kept him on track, allowed him to focus on the task at hand… It was automatic. No one would notice just how far he had actually fallen, not with his routine. It made him appear alive enough not to worry, but aloof enough to have looks of pity.

He hated it all.

He fell back on his bed, didn't bother to remove his trousers or shoes, only his shirt. He poured more liquid down his throat, stared at the far wall without really seeing it. How many years had it been? How many years had it been since the room had seen a smile? Had seen _her? _Four? Five? He didn't know. Seconds merged with minutes, minutes with hours, hours with days, days with weeks, and weeks merged with years. Everyday was the same. Everyday he was always reminded of _her_. How alone he was. How he hadn't been there. Hadn't been enough to save her.

He grabbed the alarm clock on his nightstand, hurled it across the room. It shattered when it collided off the far wall. He covered his mouth with his palm. Would it never end? Would she always torment him? Would he never be able to let go? Did he want to let go?

He fell back into misery. An ever-lasting numbness spread throughout his being, chilling him from warmth. He poured more of the whiskey down his throat, waiting for sweet oblivion to take him over. Waited until the dreams would begin, and he would once again relive his hell. Laughter bubbled out of his throat. Wasn't everyday hell? He shook his head. His hell on earth…

He took another large gulp of firewhiskey, felt the fingers of drunken unconsciousness start to pull at him. He closed his eyes, leaned back against the headboard. He took another large gulp. Slowly slipping. He distantly heard the shatter of glass, somewhere in the back of his mind knew he had dropped the bottle of firewhiskey. He was nearly there…

A flash of red hair, vivid emerald eyes… He succumbed to sleep, his nightmarish heaven.

* * *

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_A/N—Edited a bit. Obviously, this is AU. Don't like that, then don't read. I'm not sure how true I'll stay to the books as far as canon goes. So… _

_SatiricalPhilosophy _


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer- Harry Potter belongs to J.K.R. I only own the story and all original characters presented throughout duration of this fic._

_Warning—Mentions of sex and disturbing (some could maybe consider it disturbing) scenes._

Ghost of the Past

Chapter Two

_Perfection. That was only word that came to mind as he watched her. Her magnificent emerald eyes sparkling delightfully, face a picture of happiness as she animatedly talked about her day, ringlets of ruby red escaping their confinement and framing an oval face he thought flawless, the red slip dress made of some fine silk and lace detail where it clung to her small, but firm breast, beautiful smile… eyes that watched him with a sudden coy shyness under soft lashes… His breath caught; Christ she was beautiful._

_He smiled at her, reached across the wrought iron table with its clear glass top, and took her much smaller hand in his. He stood up, looked down at her, and stared in her confused eyes that questioned him silently, a smile still playing over her lips. Gently, ever so gently, he pulled her to her feet. Her head was tilted to the side, regarding him curiously. He only smiled softly before beginning to walk backwards, never, not once, taking his dark eyes from hers. He pulled her after him, his hand loosely holding hers. He stopped and suddenly pulled her toward him. She fell against his chest, and immediately, he wrapped his arms around her tiny waist, stopping her from escaping him, not that she really wanted to. _

_Out of nowhere, music started to play. A soft, slow beat that added to the romantic ambiance surrounding them. Her eyes widened, and he smirked playfully. She shook her head; he nodded his. _

"_Just one dance, love, for me," he whispered softly to her. _

_He knew she was won over. He once again took hold of her hand, while his other hand found purchase at the small of her back, her remaining hand finding its place on his shoulder. In the middle the picturesque garden with its wild roses growing everywhere and dominating the black wrought iron gate that was the entrance to their little piece of paradise with other flowers and trees adding to its beauty, they swayed back and forth. Made small circles on the cobbled area near the large stone fountain, the candles emitting a warm glow about and around them. _

_She sighed, and leaned her head against his chest, eyes closing as she relaxed. He smiled; even in four or five inch heels he managed to be a head taller than her. She looked up at him with a raised eyebrow; he must have chuckled and not realized. He grinned at her. _

"_What?" she questioned softly. _

"_Nothing." _

_She rolled her eyes, a smile tugging her lips. "Had to be something, moron." _

"_Ouch, baby, that hurts," he teased. _

_She put on a mock serious expression, and said, "It's going to hurt a lot more if you don't tell me." _

"_Tell you what?" It was a game of theirs to play with each other's mind. _

_She made some noise in the back of her throat. He forced himself to not grin any wider. "You know what." _

"_Do I?" _

_She pouted. "James." _

_He chuckled, and gave in. "Okay, okay. I was just thinking." _

"_Thinking about?" she prompted. _

_James couldn't help the wide grin the broke across his face. "About how incredibly short you are." _

_Her eyes widened dramatically, and her mouth opened like a fish out of water. He couldn't stop himself from laughing. She abruptly stopped their swaying; untangling her hand from his and removing her hand from his shoulder so she could place both of her hands on her slim hips. She glared at him, her lips pursed and brows drawn together comically. He knew she wasn't angry, not really. She knew he was only joking with her. It was something he would always tease her about. No, he knew she was only playing her part in their teasing. _

_He stopped laughing, and looked down at her. Curl falling in her face, and a displeased look plastered over her pretty features, he took a step toward her, eyes sparkling merrily. With only an inch between them, he rested a hand on her hip, the other tangling itself in her hair. Oh no, she wasn't angry at all. She was much too relaxed to be angry. His eyes softened, hers narrowed. God, she was so beautiful. _

"_You're beautiful." _

_Before the blush could fully make itself known across her cheeks, his mouth had descended upon her, capturing her lips. What started off as a chaste kiss escalated all too quickly into something passionate and breathtaking with him covering her naked body with his on the ground as he pumped into her, her head thrown back in pure ecstasy. It wasn't long before they both found their completion, clinging onto each other long after the final waves disappeared. _

_He shifted, moving so he wouldn't crush her, but still able to rest inside of her. He kissed her shoulder softly, lifted his head, and looked at her flushed face. So very beautiful. It made his stomach clinch, his heart to beat wildly against his ribcage. She caused his heart to beat so. He pushed a lock of hair out of her face, whispered huskily, "I love you." _

_She opened her eyes, and looked at him, smiled lightly. "I love you." _

_He buried his head in the crook of her neck, breathed her in. What would he do without her? She meant the world to him. Nothing was more important then she was—not to him. He would die for her—willingly lay down his life. For life without her… it was something so unbearable he couldn't even begin to imagine what life without her would be like. Life without waking up to see her beside of him. Life without her laugh, her mood swings, her quirky sense of humor, her… her… Without her he didn't want to even consider it. He kissed the soft flesh of her neck again, reassuring himself that she was still there, in the garden, with him. _

_A sudden, strangled sound from her caused him to quickly lift his head. A strange expression was painted across her face. Pained, confused… What was wrong? Intense worry filled him. Quickly he disentangled himself from her, rolling to his side and touching her face. _

"_James?" _

_She didn't have to say anything else for him to understand what she was asking. What was wrong? What was happening? Why was her skin so cold? Why were the plants around them suddenly becoming desiccated and dying? When had the candles gone out, the sudden sickle-shaped moon their only source of light? _

_Before he could answer her, she gasped again. The flesh beneath his hand becoming so chilled he almost pulled away. His eyes widened. Her hand… her body… Her skin was thinning, thinning so every bone in her body was jutting out and visible to him, and turning a sickly shade of gray. Her breath came out in choked gasps, the thinned, rotting flesh falling away from the frail bone with a sickening, wet plop. Her eyes… One of her once beautiful emerald eyes had erupted in a burst of grotesque liquid, leaving the socket empty. She was a rotting corpse, decaying right there in front of him. He could do nothing but stare in horror, and call out her name as if it would stop the grotesque horror from happening. He reached out, touched her, more flesh came away… _

"_James." Her voice was croaky and sounded withered. She reached her arms out to him as if beckoning him to her. He could only stare in utmost horror. "James, kiss me." _

_He started to shake his head, brows furrowed. She suddenly sat up. He had thought her incapable of it. After all, she was practically just a skeleton—literally skin and bones. She turned her head to him, staring at him through empty sockets. The flesh from one side of her face sloughed to the ground, clumps of her hair accompanying it. The fact that he was completely nude eluded him at the moment, his thoughts solely focused on the… the living corpse in front of him… _

"_James, please… You promised to love me forever…" _

'She's Lily,'_ he thought and forced himself not to shy away from her decaying hand. "Always, love." _

"_It hurts, James. I'm so cold," she said as more flesh fell away in revolting thuds. _

_He didn't crawl away from her as she moved to place her body against his. He was unable to stop his head, though, from leaning back away from her lips. Unable to stop his breath from getting caught, and him choking. She smelt of nothing but death, so unlike her usual scent of spice and sometimes Japanese cherry blossoms. _

"_Make the cold go away, James…" _

"_Lily-"_

"_James, make it go away. You always fix what you do wrong. Love me again, James," she pleaded accusingly. _

_What he did wrong? What? His confusion was thick as he asked urgently, "What? What did I do that needs to be fixed?" _

_Her cold, decaying body was pressed flushed against his. Decayed and sloughing tissue slid down his own warm, whole flesh. More of her once lovely hair fell away, the rest brittle and dull like dead leaves. Her arms snaked around his neck, holding him in a powerful embrace. Far more powerful than he could have ever imagined. Powerful enough he couldn't remove her arms from around him if he even tried. Powerful enough she kept pulling him closer and closer to her waiting lips that were thinned and shriveled up like the rest of her. _

"_You did this, James. You killed me, and then put me in that box. Buried and forgot about me while I became nothing." _

_Pain shot through him. No. He shook his head vehemently. No, he didn't kill her. And he surely hadn't forgot about her. He could never forget about her. No… No! This was all some nightmare. Some horrible, dreadful nightmare that he wished to be rid of! That he would awake from and see her, his sweet Lily, lying next to him in their bed. Lying beside of him whole and alive, not rotting away and telling him such… such atrocious lies. See her alive and well with a brilliant smile on her lovely oval face, and then proceed to make love to her. None of this was real! None of it! Lies! A nightmare! It wasn't real! It couldn't be! _

_She touched his cheek with her thin hand. "Oh, my sweet, sweet James, but it is. It's the truth. You killed me, and then put me away and left me to rot. You did this, James—you did." _

"_N-no! I would never—"_

"_But you did." Her one remaining eye was glaring at him. "You did this, _lover_." _

_"B-But—" He was close to hyperventilating. It was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare. It had to be…_

_She put a finger that's flesh and muscle from its tip to its first joint was completely gone, leaving nothing but bloody bone, on his lips to stop him from speaking. "It's okay, beloved. It isn't too late." _

"_How?" He was afraid to ask. _

_Her thin lips pulled into an ugly smile. "Just kiss me, James. Love me again. Kiss me, love me… and join the dead." _

_Skeletons hands shot up out of the ground, grabbing him and pulling him down. He screamed. She laughed. Down, down. Roots scratched his face and naked body. The dark soil blurred his vision, and was bitter against his tongue. He screamed, tried to fight them to no avail. Still, they didn't stop until he was enclosed in a casket. A casket that didn't look new, that's silken fabric was starting to tatter. A casket that he remembered and hated passionately. A casket that was already occupied. _

"_Love me, James, and join the dead." _

_He could do nothing but scream. Her lips descended down upon his, she pressed him down—_

He jerked upright, an alarmed shout escaping his mouth. Perspiration glistened on his exposed chest and brow. His breathing was heavy, labored, and painful in his chest, and his dark eyes were opened wide, a wild look in them. He could feel his heart beating frantically against his ribcage, as if it was fighting to be released. He drew in a shaky breath, ran his hand anxiously through his damp hair, and over his cheeks and mouth. Would he never find peace? Did he want to find peace?

It was an age-old question he always found himself asking, but never got any closer to the answer.

He closed his eyes tightly, forced himself to regain his calm. It wasn't the first time he had had a dream—or perhaps it was a nightmare—about her. Knew it wouldn't be the last. It was always the same. It would start off with everything perfect, and then end horribly. He should've been used to them by now, but he wasn't. He would never be used to them. Would never get over losing her. Would never forgive himself for losing her. Would never… Would never forget her. Wasn't able to forget her. Not even if he tried, though he didn't want to. He reached over to his bedside table and grabbed his glasses, put them on and looked at his alarm clock. It wasn't there… He remembered then, looked to where it still lay broken. He sighed wearily, and shook his head. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

Getting out of bed, something crunched under his feet. He looked down. Glass, from where he had dropped the bottle the previous night. Well, at least he was still wearing his shoes. He walked to the bathroom, briefly noted somewhere in the back of his mind there was no early morning light shining from around his heavy curtains. Dawn hadn't even crested the sky yet. He didn't care; even if he lay back down he wouldn't find sleep again. He never did after his dreams left him. Left him alone and bitterly cold. He entered the bathroom, flicked on the light, and ignored, like many other things, the flash of pain that shot through his already pounding head. He quickly went about his morning routine before throwing on a pair of black trousers and a basic v-neck black sweater with shoes to match. Once again opting not to shave.

Walking down two flights of stairs, he entered the spacious and all-round clean kitchen, fixed himself strong black coffee. She had always hated coffee. It hadn't mattered how much sugar or cream was in it. She had thought it gross. Melancholy washed through him as he thought lovingly of how she would react, and the facial expressions she would make when she drank coffee. It had always made him laugh. His hand tightened on the hot mug of coffee. Why? Why had he let her come along? Why had he let her pursue a career as being an Auror? Why hadn't he saved her? Why did she have to leave him? A dog barked jerking his attention toward the kitchen's entrance.

Blanc.

Her dog.

He remembered the day she had gotten the dog. It had been a gift from him. It was after Gertrude, her Kuvasz, had died of some kind of illness he didn't remember the name to. He remembered how much she had cried, having gotten extremely attached to the dog. He hadn't even been planning on getting her another dog, but upon leaving Remus' had seen the small, rain-drenched puppy huddled across the street; obviously it had been abandoned because it hadn't even looked weaned yet. And of course, upon thinking back to his depressed girlfriend, had decided to take the dog home to her. It was safe to say she had been extremely happy with both him and the little puppy. Though thinking back, if he had realized exactly just how large the once small puppy was going to get maybe he would have left the dog there. Shook his head though; he would have brought it home anyways.

"Come here, Blanc," he beckoned to the dog, snorted at his name. He had given her the strangest of looks when he had heard her proclaim the dog's name. Blanc, the complete opposite of the dog's appearance: shaggy long hair and completely black. It reminded him of Padfoot. Reminded him of her… She was probably the only reason he hadn't given the dog up already. That, and the dog didn't take to strangers at all.

Blanc moved toward him, sat in front of him. He sat his coffee mug down on the counter, and bent down to pet the dog. He smiled, and it wasn't an entirely pleasant thing. Blanc, a _mutt_, was probably the only living creature that could even _begin_ to understand his pain. The dog had been raised by her, taken cared by her, nursed by her… had mourned for her. Still mourned for her after all these years. He sighed, and stroked the dog's head. He a man, and Blanc a dog… He found it ironic that Blanc was the only living creature that could possibly come close to relating what he felt, come close to having feelings that paralleled with his.

"Come on."

888

White oleanders, now withered, lay in front of the stone.

His hands in his pocket, dog sitting placidly beside of him and whining softly, he looked down with a stoic mask firmly in place. He eyes drifted over the words engraved in the stone. Words engraved in stone he had traced many a times with his fingers, traced until the rough texture of the stone was firmly embedded in his mind. He didn't need to trace the words to remember them. He had remembered them since his first year at Hogwarts. Had remembered them since the very first day he had heard them. He would never forget them, could never forget them. He knelt down, touched the gray stone, once again tracing the words… the name.

"Lily," he whispered, his voice betraying his stoic mask.

It had been too long since he had last visited her. Last came to her forever-resting place. Guilt coiled in his stomach. Guilt at trying to forget her. Guilt and self-loathing for not coming to her sooner, not being there when she needed him the most. Kneeling there, in front of her grave marker, torrents of anguish, twisted like a helix ladder with extreme guilt, were the only thing he felt. Anguish, guilt, and a deep longing he knew would never be satisfied. His anger simmering underneath his stoic composure and inner turmoil. Anger at himself, at all the happy people, at Voldemort… the world.

Blanc whined, and nudged James with his wet nose. James looked at the charcoal-colored dog. A dog that had always seemed to compete with him when she had been alive for her attention. She and him had always found it amusing… He clenched his hand. Maybe it would be better if he did give the dog up. It wasn't like he cared for the dog properly. Usually it was one of his friends, one of her old friends, or his mother that took the dog out for a walk, fed him, and reminded him to take Blanc to the vet… It would be another reminder of her that he wouldn't have to deal with, that he would be rid of...

And that was the exact reason, he conceded, that he wasn't going to give the dog away.

Blanc whined again, pawed at the ground. James scratched behind the dog's floppy ears, laid fresh oleanders gently on the ground, and stood up. Yet, he didn't leave at once. He stood there staring down at her grave, a place he despised but found himself unable to stop going to, unable to express how much he missed her, longed for her…

He stuffed his hand in his coat pocket, and turned, pulling on the dog's leash. No one realizing just how much will it took to do that simple act.

888

"Didn't think I would see you here."

He didn't bother to look at the person that had spoken, only replied, "It's an engagement party, why wouldn't I be here to congratulate Frank and Alice?"

"I wouldn't have thought engagement parties were your thing. Not anymore, anyways."

James glanced at the woman from the corner of his eye. She was right, they _weren't_ his thing, not any more, but he was expected to be there. Was expected to be happy for his friends, greet them with smiles and warm words of congratulation. They didn't realize, however, that he couldn't, not really. He couldn't give them any real smiles; only fake smiles and words with hollow meanings. But wasn't that the only kind of smile he granted everyone with now? Fake ones? And no one realized it, except for the woman standing beside of him, observing the room through the large French glass doors that led from the living room into the back yard and patio, and its happy occupants just as he had been moments before. A woman he wasn't so fond of, and that wasn't particularly fond of him.

"And why's that, _Catherine_?" James snapped.

He saw her, out of the corner of his eye, glance at him. "You aren't an idiot, Potter, don't make me spell it out for you," she snapped back frostily.

James threw a glare at her, tightened his hand momentarily around his almost empty glass. "Why are you talking to me?" he questioned, his voice conveying his displeasure for having to converse with her.

Catherine was silent for a moment, long enough for James to think she wasn't going to answer his question. He was about to walk away from her when she spoke, stilling any movements he was or had been about to make. "I saw the flowers."

James stiffened visibly, sure if he squeezed any tighter the glass in his hand would shatter. His eyes hardened, he swallowed with effort. Anger, so sudden it nearly sent him into a state of vertigo, seized him. He slowly turned to face her, so slowly it was almost hesitant. Perhaps it was.

"What?"

He watched as the woman beside of him swallowed before turning to face him, jade colored eyes cold as she looked up at him. "I saw the flowers," she repeated even though she knew he had heard her the first time.

"You were there?" There was no need for either one to elaborate what they meant, they already knew.

Anger flared in Catherine's normally icy eyes. James met her angry glare with one of his own, angry dark hazel eyes clashing with angry jade eyes. "Don't make the mistake of assuming you're the only one that still visits her, Potter," she snapped furiously.

His hand tightened on the glass even more. "No, but I seem to be the only one that isn't trying to forget her."

Catherine's hands balled into fists, manicured nails painted a deep red biting into her flesh. If she felt any discomfort from it, James couldn't tell. Her face was a picture of anger. Anger that was directed at him, that was always directed at him. It wasn't anything that he wasn't used to, however. Ever since their Hogwarts days, he and Catherine Monttez had never gotten along. One reason being their placement in feuding houses; she had been a Slytherin, and he a Gryffindor; it had been guaranteed that they would be at each other's throats. Another reason being she had never deemed him good enough for her best friend, not even when they had announced their engagement had she thought him to be worthy of the petite redhead.

And now… now her anger had intensified, growing into a fine resentment, perhaps even loathing or something akin to it. He knew she blamed him. Blamed him for her death, for killing her, for killing Lily. _His _Lily. And he didn't begrudge her for it, couldn't because he knew it was the truth. Knew that Catherine was the only person that would tell him so, that wouldn't lie to him about it. She, after all, had no qualms about reminding him of his faults whenever she believed he had let himself forget, even if he hadn't. James wasn't sure whether he hated her for it, or appreciated her for it. Perhaps it was a combination of both.

"Don't. Don't think you're the only one that still misses her, James Potter. That loved her," Catherine heatedly raged at him. "She was my best friend for god sakes. You _aren't _the only one that still misses her." Catherine shook her head, a lock of ebony hair falling in her face. She ignored it, a strange look appearing in her eyes when she looked back at James. Sadness? _Pity_?

"You're just unable to let go."

James' eyes hardened, if possible even more, chilling to become even colder than the once-Slytherin in front of him. How dare her. The nerve of her. If it weren't Catherine Monttez standing in front him, if it wasn't Catherine Monttez that was saying those words, then he wouldn't have believed anyone else would have the audacity say them. But he knew her. Knew what she was, and nothing was below her when it came to him. And yet, she wasn't finished.

"No one else may see it, not even that imbecile Black, but I do. You can't move on, can't let her go. Everyday you torture yourself over her death, over the fact that you'll never see her, hold her again. Now don't get me wrong, Potter, I couldn't give a damn how much you torture yourself." His whole body was ridged, but she seemed to take no notice. "You're so wrapped up in your own pain that you don't notice anyone else's. To absorbed with making sure that you find no happiness in your life, you and that damn dog—"

He snapped. He couldn't help it. He flung his glass away, heard it shatter as it collided with something, before grabbing Catherine roughly by her upper arms and slamming her into the large stone column nearest to them that was used as support for the balcony overhead. Anger clouded his eyes, darkening them more. He didn't have time to be surprised by his sudden lack of control, too focused on the woman that was the reason his anger was provoked so. The source of his sudden enragement. Later on, when he was alone with his own thoughts, he would take the time to berate himself for losing his hard won control, for acting so rashly against a woman, even if said woman was Catherine Monttez. For now, his only thought was to lash out. Lash out at the woman he held tightly by her biceps, the woman that was glaring furiously back at him, but made no move to forcibly remove herself from his bruising, viselike grip. That would only, most likely, fuel both of their anger, causing both of them to turn to violence for a source of retaliation, for a way to hurt the other. It had happened before, after all.

"You self-righteous bitch," James snarled. "You don't know a damn thing about me. You have no idea what it's been like for me, _Monttez_."

His hands tightened on her arms. James watched her jade-colored eyes darken in color until it was almost impossible to distinguish that they were green. He wanted to hurt something, to vent his anger. He wanted her to shut up, didn't want to hear her accusations. Didn't want to hear the truth. It wasn't her business anyways how he was; they weren't friends, they didn't even remotely _like_ each other. How dare she. A fine tremble could be seen throughout his body, a fine sign of his growing fury, and yet, Catherine took no heed. Continued to plow on, sneering in his face all the things he didn't want to hear. All the things he wished he could make her stop saying.

"I know you can't let go. Can't let go of her and find some kind of solace in the damn world, let _her_ find peace," she angrily retorted. "I knew Lily better than anyone, Potter, just the same as you did. Do you really think she would want you to do this to yourself?"

Her words threw him. His grip on her arms loosened. Catherine shoved him away from her; James stumbled back, smacking the opposite wall. Before he could speak, Catherine had already pressed on. "You say the rest of us are trying to forget her, we're not. We're trying to move on with our lives. Her death affected us all, Potter, think about that."

Catherine began to walk away; James let her. They didn't have anything else to say to one another. What damage that was intended had been done, what needed to be said had been said… and it was over. It wouldn't be the last row they had, James knew that, but for now it was enough. It was enough for him to ruminate, go over in his mind over and over again when he was alone tonight. Alone like he always was. Alone with only memories of her to keep him company. To warm his cold body, and to chill his heart. He balled his fist, and in a time of senseless impulse, punched the column he had pinned Catherine to only minutes before. Physical pain always helped drive away inner turmoil, if even for a little while.

James sighed heavily, weary of the night and the world. He needed a drink.

* * *

_A/N—Edited. Thanks a bunch for the reviews. _

_SatiricalPhilosophy _


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